Winter Manor, 1751

Lord William Fitzsimmons Winter leaned on his ornamental walking cane and gazed up at the façade of Winter Manor. Though late in the evening, it was June and only just dusk. The half-light made the house with its pale frontage appear ethereal, as though it might vanish if he were to blink. He looked with awe upon his creation, a thing of classical beauty, following the strict lines of ancient Greece, his dream land. He could not transplant himself to the Greece of Socrates, but at least, in Winter, he could capture a little of the perfectly proportioned style of those times.

He’d inherited Winter Manor from his father five years previously, and the house which had occupied this spot had been a small, dark, and tiresome Tudor residence. He despised insular, rambling buildings and ordered its demolition almost immediately. For most of the period of the construction of his new home he’d sojourned in his London town house, relishing his ability to speak to his acquaintances of his impressive country house in the North. His good friend, Sir Robert Hodgson, who studied architecture as one of his many scholarly pursuits and understood his desire for Greek beauty, had sketched the plans for the building on his behalf, and had undertaken to supervise the project, for a quite extraordinary fee. Lord William rather liked paying over the odds for his house. It made him feel indulgent and decadent.

He had been in the North for a month now, ensuring the finishing touches of his new home were undertaken to perfection. Overall, he was very pleased though well aware he’d allowed the more baroque aspects of his nature to run wild in the interior décor of the house—the sweeping luxury of curves and silks was hard to resist. He looked up to the clock tower, its curvaceous design at odds with the rest of the house. It was the one part of the house that broke the rules, his rebellion, and it made him smile, feeling rather wicked.

The bitter smell of burning reached his nostrils, and he watched as two male servants lit the torches he’d had placed between where the driveway exited the avenue of trees and where his friends’ carriages would stop in front of the house. They would begin to arrive any minute, and Lord William was excited. It was his first house party at Winter, the first time he’d been able to entertain friends as master of his own country house, emerging finally from his father’s shadow. He’d invited only his closest friends today, and planned to unveil the house to his acquaintance at large at the ball he would hold in August.

He glanced down at his appearance once more, though he had examined every detail in the looking glass several times over before coming out to the front of the house to wait for his guests. His finely embroidered coat was newly made for this occasion. The material was heavy and expensive, the cut perfect, with panels to emphasise the fullness of his hips, but cut close to his slim body about his chest. He adjusted one of the cuffs, turned back all the way to his elbow, just to feel the silk lining of the coat once more. The waistcoat he wore beneath was of the same rich fabric, and both were trimmed with glistening gold braid. He bent to ensure his new soft leather shoes, with their large silver buckles, showed no imperfections. His white silk stockings were very fine, the buckles securing them to his breeches sitting evenly above his slightly muscled calves. He raised a hand to smooth over his powdered wig. It was impossible for him to look any better. Smiling to himself in satisfaction, he wryly acknowledged his own vanity.

A clanking, rattling sound alerted him to the progress of the first of the carriages to arrive along the driveway. A pair of grey horses appeared, pulling a fine landau. Lord William smiled to himself again and waited for the carriage to come to a halt close to where he waited. A footman, liveried in green and gold, descended the steps to open the door and lower the step for the passengers to disembark from the carriage.

“Dearest Georgiana! And Percy too, of course,” Lord William exclaimed as Lord and Lady Stanwell climbed from the carriage. Georgiana Stanwell, once plain Mary James, born in the St. Giles rookeries, the most horrendous and depraved part of the ever-spreading capital, was one of his closest London confidantes. With her raven hair and voluptuous figure, she’d escaped the gin-soaked whoredom of her mother and sisters to become a much-admired actress, when handsome, rich Lord Percy Stanwell had outraged his family and most of polite society by asking for her hand in marriage. Lord William delighted in the scandal attached to them, so markedly in contrast to the purity of the way they adored each other, and their friendship had been firmly cemented over the time he had spent in London, since their own town house was across the square from his own.

“William. What a beautiful house you’ve built!” Lady Georgiana exclaimed.

“I laid every stone myself, of course,” he returned. “That is the most exquisite stomacher.” He glanced down over the rest of her fine gown. “But my dear, I fear you’ve changed shape since last we met.”

“Oh, wide and flat is so out of style now, William. Our skirts have to be round and full these days.”

“It suits you perfectly, Georgiana, of course.”

“Now, William, that’s my wife you’re paying lavish compliments to,” Lord Percy said. William patted him on the arm,

“Are you jealous, Percy, dearest?”

“Exceedingly,” Lord Percy replied. “I’d rather like a compliment or two myself.”

“Then I must say I rather admire your ruffles, Lord Stanwell.”

“Most kind.” Lord Percy chuckled softly.

The footman closed the door behind them, and the carriage rumbled away to the rear of the house. “Welcome to my home. I thought tonight wine, sweetmeats, and cards would be a suitable entertainment. Tomorrow I will take you into the park and tell you in interminable detail of my intentions for the grounds. I have very interesting plans for a bridge over the river.”

“I’m sure it will be fascinating,” Lady Georgiana replied with ostentatious insincerity. Lord William’s droll reply was interrupted by the arrival of another carriage into the flickering torchlight. His gaze darted over the livery on the door of the carriage, and he hoped his slight disappointment did not show in his expression. Clearly he was a terrible actor, for Lady Georgiana leaned close to him and whispered, “Not who you were hoping for, William?”

“I am equally delighted to see each of my guests.” He smiled his acknowledgement of the truth of her words whilst refusing to look into her twinkling eyes.

The footman opened the door of the newly arrived carriage and the occupants climbed down. Sir Robert Hodgson, who had designed the new Winter Manor, accompanied by his good friend Mr. Henry Branton, and that man’s timid younger sister, Eleanor. Sir Robert was in his early forties. His tightly curled wig was the colour his hair had once been, dark brown, and his clothes were, at least in comparison to Lord William and Lord Percy’s, rather plain. Henry Branton was more finely dressed, in one of the new style three-piece suits, his breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat all of the same patterned fabric. His pretty blond sister, whose face was flushed with excitement, wore a skirt of the type Lady Georgiana claimed to be now out of fashion, with wide panniers over her hips, but a rather flat profile if viewed from the side.

“Robert! I see you’ve come to examine the use I am making of your work of art,” Lord William said to his friend in greeting.

“I have no doubt you are making excellent use of it,” Sir Robert responded in his characteristic gruff voice.

“Henry, good to see you. And the delicious Miss Branton. I may call you Eleanor, mayn’t I? You may call me Lord Winter.” Lord William winked at the young woman, and she flushed and giggled, apparently lost for words.

“Are you going to keep us out here in the cold?” Lady Georgiana enquired of him.

“It’s June, Georgiana, dearest.”

“It’s my prerogative to be cold whatever month it is,” she returned. “Is there a reason you’re not allowing us into your new house?”

“I am rather afraid you will contaminate the perfection of the air,” Lord William said in a serious tone. “But I would hate you to die of a chill, Georgiana, so I will allow you all inside after all.” Lord William turned towards the house, looking rather regretfully over his shoulder. All of the expected guests were not equal, just as Lady Georgiana had suggested, and there was one in particular he was waiting for.

The party had just reached the point of the front steps where his new Greek statues gazed at each other. He was about to remark on how discontented he thought they looked, with their eyes locked eternally on each other, when he heard another carriage approaching.

“You may all go inside,” he said, ushering his guests past him and through the front doors into the high-ceilinged hallway. “The servants will see you settled in the Drawing Room with drinks. I will meet our final guests and attend to you in a moment.” He caught the knowing look on Lady Georgiana’s countenance, her skirts brushing his legs as she passed him and entered the house.

The carriage came to a halt and the footman attended to it. A woman emerged first. She wore the air of easy sophistication that signalled her nationality. The Marchioness Claudette of Danbridge had been in England since her marriage ten years ago, but she was still perfectly Parisian. Accustomed to luxury in her upbringing in the French royal court of Louis XV, she appeared to regard the whole world with something like distaste. Her gown was decorated with broad vertical stripes, and her waist was corseted into the narrowest dimensions. Her wig was powdered and piled in curls on her crown, her cheeks and lips rouged, and she wore a dark beauty patch to the left of her perfect full lips. She was breathtaking. Lord William kissed her hand and then turned his attention to the man climbing quickly down from the carriage after her. His smile grew broader, and he felt that dreadful surge of anticipation in the very pit of his stomach. George, Marquess of Danbridge smiled warmly at him, and it was impossible to miss the simmering heat in his eyes. Lord William was perfectly sure he was not imagining the intent in that even gaze.

The Marquess of Danbridge was taller and broader than Lord William, though not greatly. His frock coat was dark blue and decorated with black and gold piping, with lace at the cuffs. He wore no wig, rather his full head of chestnut hair was swept back and tied with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. His skin was ageless, though he was four years older than Lord William. Though his jawline was firm, his mouth was fleshy and sensitive. Lord William was fascinated by the Marquess’s mouth.

“George! Claudette! I was beginning to think we might not have the pleasure,” he said jovially.

“We couldn’t deny you that of course,” the Marchioness replied in her musically accented English. “Your little house is rather charming,” she added, looking up at Winter appreciatively.

“Only you would call it ‘little,’ Claudette, dearest.”

“It is little. But little is not always a bad thing. It depends on the use the size is put to, don’t you think?” If the Marchioness meant the innuendo of the words, her expression gave no sign of it.

“I agree completely,” Lord William replied, before turning his attention to the Marquess.

“Wonderful to see you, George. I am very eager for you to see the Saloon, I’m sure you will approve of it. I drew a lot of inspiration from our last conversation—about Venice.”

“You did, William?”

“You’re very inspirational, George.” Lord William could feel the colour rising to his face.

The Marchioness rolled her eyes dramatically and took both men by the arm. “Shall we go inside now, William?” She propelled them towards the doors.

Half an hour later, the exclaiming over the quality of the plaster-moulded ceilings, the carved marble fireplace, and the fine blue silk lining the walls of the Drawing Room was complete, and the entire party sat down to a game of whist, declaring that the tour of the rest of the property could wait until daylight would show it to its best advantage. The only exception from their game was Eleanor Branton, who declaring herself to be “atrociously terrible” at cards, seated herself at the harpsichord in the adjoining Music Room, and provided an accomplished musical accompaniment to their entertainment, tinkling her way through one of Scarlatti’s sonatas.

“Excellent claret,” Sir Robert said, sipping his drink as he contemplated his hand of cards.

“It is French, of course,” the Marchioness replied.

“Is everything French exquisite?” Lord Percy asked.

“Everything, my lord.” The Marchioness offered him a slight, suggestive smile. “The English manage vulgarity with so much more success than we ever could, however.” She threw a card onto the table.

“I’m particular to English vulgarity myself,” Lord Percy said, patting his wife’s hand comfortingly.

“There’s nothing a French woman can do that I am incapable of,” Georgiana replied indignantly.

“As I’m sure Percy can testify,” Lord William said.

“Perhaps we should ask Percy and George to compare the merits of each nation’s women for us?” Henry Branton said, with a smirk that suggested he would really enjoy such a description.

“And maybe this house party is a respectable gathering.” Lord William’s protest produced contemptuous peals of laughter from all of his guests. Henry Branton played his card, Lord William followed suit, and the game continued. He pondered that laughter though. For all the sins of the company he kept, he felt himself to be, at his core, a respectable man. His father had been a fair and efficient landowner; he had himself studied at Cambridge to be sure his intellect did not stagnate as a result of his wealth; he neither drank nor gambled to excess; and he even listened to the sermon from the family pew in the local church most Sundays.

Lord William took a sip of his claret and leaned back in his chair to survey his gathered friends. A former actress and woman of easy virtue leaned lovingly on the shoulder of a lord wealthier than himself who had spited his family and married for true love. A knight who spent most of his time enclosed in his library and planning fine buildings sipped his claret with true appreciation. A country gentleman studied the cards intently, and his rather silly, yet accomplished, younger sister smiled as she played the harpsichord. A self-obsessed French aristocrat glanced around at the company as keenly as he did himself. And an English Marquess reclined in his chair, watching the game with a relaxed countenance. Lord William’s eyes lingered on the Marquess. He loved Georgiana, it was true, but suddenly everyone in the room except the Marquess appeared frivolous and pointless. None of them were as solid, as deeply thoughtful, as substantial as the Marquess.

George, Marquess of Danbridge and his wife, Claudette, were also the only members of his party who were both welcome in respectable society and actively sought out such approval. Both attended King George II at court when they were in London, and the Marchioness’s French style was envied and copied by many of the nobility’s most proper ladies. That he claimed them among his own close friends was a privilege he did not quite understand. They took a risk in being associated with Lord William, not because of Lord William himself, but because Lord William maintained friendships with people such as Lady Georgiana—who were generally bitterly condemned by polite society—and preferred the company of men such as Sir Robert, who were shunned for their eccentricity. The Marquess was different, he straddled both worlds without duplicity, and Lord William was endlessly fascinated by him. It had changed everything when he’d discovered, during their last meeting, that the Marquess returned similar feelings. Since that time, Lord William had been able to think of very little else.

Lord William found it no great revelation that he should be attracted so compulsively to one of his own sex. His time at Cambridge had educated him in more ways than one. The surprise was that a man such as the Marquess would share any of those feelings, and that they should be inspired by him. Certain comments had passed between them, and more meaningful glances, until there was no doubt of their shared sentiments. The uncertainty came in whether either of them would yet act on their feelings. The Marquess was a married, respected man, but somehow the look in his eye suggested he was also a man of action, who would not leave his desires unfulfilled. Lord William found that glimmer in the Marquess’s expression desperately exciting.

The card game was eventually won by Sir Robert, who was very pleased with himself. Lord William ordered a footman to go to the kitchens and bring them further refreshments, since there was no indication of any of his guests being ready to retire to their chambers just yet. Eleanor Branton had ceased playing the harpsichord and suddenly found herself the uncomfortable centre of attention, as Lady Georgiana quizzed her about her future marriage plans, of which, aged just sixteen, she had only the vaguest, most optimistic of ideas. The Marchioness appeared a little distracted from the conversation, as did Henry Branton, who was gazing at the Marchioness with an inscrutable expression, apparently unnoticed by its object.

The Marquess rose to his feet and brushed the skirts of his coat smooth, announcing his intention to take a brief turn outside, for the sake of the fresh air. Lord William immediately rose to his feet and declared that there was an aspect of the columns on the façade of Winter that he especially wanted the Marquess to examine, and followed him from the room.

The two men were silent as they crossed the hallway to the front door, their heeled shoes loud on the tiled floor, and went out onto the front steps. There, the Marquess paused and turned to Lord William, as though there was something to say he did not quite have the words for. Lord William heard his heart in his ears and began to fiddle nervously with the lace trim of his cuffs. He waited for the Marquess to speak, knowing he could not break the silence himself.

“What is it you wanted me to see, William?” the Marquess enquired, with a slight raising of his eyebrows. Lord William felt his eyes drawn back to that soft mouth, such a contrast with the otherwise brusque character of the Marquess’s face. There was the slightest hint of the regrowth of his dark beard along the firm jawline.

“You can admire the Greek pillars if they draw your interest, George,” Lord William replied, tension coming into his voice.

“They don’t really draw my interest at all, William,” the Marquess returned, his dark eyes now fixed on Lord William’s face.

“No?” Lord William said weakly.

“Not particularly.”

“What does draw your interest, George?” As the question passed his lips he wondered if it was too bold.

“I think you know what draws my interest, William.” The Marquess’s expression intensified and he closed the space between them. Lord William took a step back and found his back pressed against one of the stone columns. The Marquess moved closer still, until the skirts of their coats touched and Lord William could smell the wine on his breath. He felt a familiar tightening in his crotch. The Marquess placed one hand either side of Lord William’s shoulders and leaned still closer until Lord William could feel his heat along the length of his body, and his face blurred with proximity, all except those deep brown eyes. The pressure in his breeches grew.

“And…what is that, George?” Lord William asked, trying to maintain his end of the conversation with something like composure.

“You know they could hang you for the thoughts you’re having, William?” the Marquess said in a breathy whisper that caressed Lord William’s lips.

“Just for the thoughts?”

“Maybe not just the thoughts.” The Marquess pressed his mouth to Lord William’s, in a kiss that was at first exploratory and tender. The force of the kiss increased then, and the sensation which had swept through Lord William’s entire corporeal form suddenly became increasingly focused in his crotch, growing from pleasurable warmth to searing heat. Caught by the intensity of the passion the Marquess’s kiss inspired, he wrapped one arm around the Marquess’s muscular body and pulled him tight against his own chest, whilst his other hand slid lower, to discover that the Marquess was just as aroused as he was. That first contact with the hardness in the Marquess’s breeches was almost his undoing, and he groaned with the effort of resisting the urge to release.

The sound seemed to jolt the Marquess, as though he had been in a daze. Suddenly he stepped back from Lord William, breathing hard and wide eyed. Lord William found himself still leaning against the stone pillar, his legs not strong enough to support him on their own. He looked at the Marquess and tried to understand what was happening.

“George?” he said, frightened by the ragged tone of his own voice.

“William.” The Marquess paused and seemed to consider his next words. “I cannot do this.”

“But why, George?” Lord William demanded, feeling almost desperate.

“I want you too much, William. You’ll never be some meaningless and fleeting liaison, easily forgettable. We’ll have to see each other in the world.”

“You’re worried for your reputation?” Lord William was surprised. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. Don’t you trust me, George?”

“I do trust you, William. But can we do this? You realise I’m a married man.”

“Claudette need not know.”

“If she did it could break her heart.”

“She has a heart?”

“Now, William, don’t be cruel.” The Marquess’s face twitched with the flicker of a smile.

“But George, really.” Lord William walked towards him and reached to run his fingers over the planes of his face. Now that he knew how that mouth tasted, how those lips felt against his own, he needed more. “Can you deny this?”

The Marquess leaned towards him, and Lord William felt the excitement growing once more. But he pulled back again. “I want to, William, I can’t tell you how greatly. But could you stand it if, in a year or so, we are in the same society, and I have to play the doting husband and pay you little regard? It is not merely Claudette’s heart that I worry for.”

“That is your concern, George?” Lord William considered for a moment. He could not deny the difficulty the Marquess put between them. Though fashionable society was full of rumours of such relations between men, it was an open secret, never spoken of and most certainly never acknowledged by the men involved. To show any symptom of such a relationship, or even the desire for such a relationship, could mean social exile and the very real spectre of the death penalty. Moreover, Lord William certainly had no wish to injure the Marchioness, or her reputation. Yet the temptation was so strong. It was difficult to convince himself something that felt so correct, so straightforward, was in reality so much more complicated. He assessed his own fortitude, his ability to be in society with the Marquess and give no hint of what had passed between them. He was strong enough. “Do not concern yourself with my heart, George.”

“Is that not what one does with the heart of the one they love?”

Lord William caught his breath. “You love me, George?”

“Since the first moment we met, William,” the Marquess replied, his voice wavering.

Drawn inextricably by the emotion in the words, Lord William bent towards the Marquess once more. Their lips met and their tongues slid together. Then the Marquess eased away from the kiss. “Which is why I can’t do this, William,” he whispered thickly and then walked away, up the steps and into the house. If he had gone in the direction of the gardens, Lord William could have followed him, pleaded with him to change his mind. But the house, with their friends and the servants, was the one place he was helpless. So he remained where he was.

The night was cooler now, and a strong breeze was blowing. Lord William’s fine clothes felt suddenly as though they were suffocating him, and he was gripped by an absurd urge to rip all of them from his body and stand naked in the night air, to roll in the grass and feel its cool dampness against his skin, to run down to the river and let its cold currents wash the longing and wanting away from his body. He could still taste the Marquess on his lips, feel that hard flesh against his fingers. To know he aroused a man like the Marquess caused another wave of sweat to prickle all over his skin. To hear the Marquess’s pained declaration of his love, and yet to know the same love was the reason he was denied, was the most terrible torture for his heart, unused to such emotions as it was.

He looked out across the dark parkland. An owl screeched somewhere in the thick trees, and the eerie sound made him shiver. There was no choice but to return to the bright candlelight of the drawing room and the company of his friends, to ignore the Marquess, and to smother his own heart. It would be good rehearsal for the rest of his life.

Lord William turned and glanced at the impassive statues on either side of the steps. They reminded him of his own predicament, loving, looking, longing, and yet unable to move any closer because of the stuff they were made of. Only he knew his craving for the slightest touch of the Marquess was far greater than anything these classical, stony lovers could ever be capable of representing with their unmoving features. He sighed and took the remaining steps to the front door quickly.

In the entrance hall, Lord William closed the door quietly behind him. He glanced around and was relieved to see no skulking footman had observed him. He began to walk towards the Drawing Room, his footsteps ringing loudly on the floor.

“William.” The voice came from the shadows below the grand staircase, close to the entrance to the Saloon. The distinct resonance of the Marquess’s voice was instantly recognisable. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lord William went towards it. He saw the tall shadow lingering near the open Saloon doorway. He had the notion if he were to hold up a light, the shadow would vanish in a moment. Seize the moment now or forever regret it.

“George?” he said, as he approached, scarce able to believe what was happening. The lack of illumination in this part of the house was disconcerting, and Lord William felt almost afraid, filled with anticipation of what would happen next. Suddenly the shadow moved in front of him, and he was taken by the arm and dragged into the Saloon. The candles had not been lit in that room, for Lord William had had no intention of using it tonight. A bluish light filtered through the Venetian window, but the darkness was thick and enveloping. The Marquess pushed him back against the door as he closed it behind them, and kissed him with a passion that made their first kiss on the steps entirely innocent in comparison. The Marquess’s strong fingers cradled Lord William’s face, pulled him deeper into the devouring kiss. The whole of Lord William’s body seemed to combust in one moment as he gripped the Marquess and pulled him closer so their bodies were touching.

“What about…everything you said?” Lord William managed to ask between gasping breaths, as the Marquess left his mouth to bend his kisses to his throat, his hands working quickly to loosen the high white stock Lord William wore about his neck.

“Nonsense, all of it,” the Marquess returned breathlessly. “This is too much to resist and pointless to deny, William. Society will never know more than whispers, and God knows there are those already. My dear wife is, I suspect, a faithless French whore, though I’ve not caught her at it.” He kissed Lord William again and trailed his tongue over his jaw and down his now-exposed throat. Lord William shuddered with arousal. “And even if there is only tonight for us, William, I have to know what it is to be with you.” His hands were working on the buttons of Lord William’s waistcoat now. He exposed the thin cotton of Lord William’s shirt and placed his hands over it. When Lord William felt the warmth of the Marquess’s hands through the thin fabric, it was almost too much.

Lord William fought his way beneath the Marquess’s layers of clothing, knowing he had to feel the warm skin and smooth muscle against his hands, more than he needed air to fill his lungs. When he reached his target he leaned back against the wall, running his hands over the Marquess’s back with its very fine covering of hair, and the Marquess brought his mouth back to Lord William’s, his kiss this time infused with love and fed by the more frenzied passion pulsing between them, driving their bodies closer. Lord William felt they were fusing together, becoming one flesh, and knew there could be no better fate in this world.

The Marquess’s hands worked at the button fastening of his breeches. Lord William could get no harder, but he felt his heartbeat focus in his groin. When the Marquess’s hand slipped into the opening he had created, William held his breath as the warm, dry fingers took hold of him. His whole body tensed, and he gripped the Marquess’s body hard. The Marquess’s hand moved gently, gripping tighter, as he brought his mouth to Lord William’s ear.

“Don’t hold yourself back, William, my love, I want to feel you give yourself for me.”

“All for you.” Lord William could restrain himself no more. The Marquess smothered his cry of release with more kisses as Lord William slammed his arms back against the wall, pressing his body forward into the Marquess’s muscular form. He knocked a candlestick from the nearby sideboard as he did so, but did not notice the sound as it fell. His ears were ringing and he was blind, but the Marquess’s mouth was still on his, those warm fingers still holding him. Whatever happened after this moment, he knew this was the pinnacle of his existence and the only time he would feel truly alive, ever in his life.

*

In the Drawing Room, Eleanor Branton heard a dull thud from somewhere beyond the walls of the Music Room. She listened carefully but heard nothing further.

“Did any of you attend to that peculiar sound?” she asked of the company at large.

Lady Georgiana, who was seated close to her husband on the settee, conversing with him with her forehead almost resting on his, looked up. “What was that, Miss Branton?”

“Why, Lady Stanwell, I was certain I heard a sound from the rooms beyond this one,” Eleanor replied, flushing to feel several pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

“I am quite sure it is merely a servant about some task or other,” Lady Georgiana replied dismissively.

“Yes. Or Lord Winter, perhaps. He and the Marquess have been absent a long while.”

“Haven’t they just?” Lord Percy agreed. “Perhaps I should go and investigate what has become of them.”

“I think not, Percy dearest,” Lady Georgiana replied, placing a gentle restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “I think it is unlikely that William is lost in his own house.”

Lord Percy caught his wife’s warning look and comprehension dawned on him slowly. “Oh yes, you’re right of course, darling Georgiana.” He smiled slightly to himself. Eleanor Branton caught that vague smile and wondered what it meant. She would be pleased when Lord William returned to the room, for he was by far the handsomest man in the party, and the sole reason she had begged to accompany her brother to Winter Manor tonight. She entertained a hopeful notion, if she could put herself enough in company with Lord William, he would pay her sufficient attention to realise what a suitable wife she could make him. Her mother had urged her to do everything within her womanly power to coax him into an interest in her, and she had to confess to herself there was something about Lord William she found rather compelling. When he looked at her it was all she could do not to blush.

She listened closely again, certain she heard movement once more from the other side of the Music Room. She wondered which room was through that wall, and what on earth a servant was doing there to be making such noises. Then she noticed Lady Georgiana regarding her keenly, the look in the other woman’s eyes somehow a warning, though she could not comprehend it. Eleanor had not been much in society, and interaction with these people was at once fascinating, intimidating, and bewildering. There always seemed to be something unsaid between them, communicated in a language of glances, whispered asides, and silent expressions she could not read. Perhaps when she understood what lay beneath such mystifying communications, she would be completely accepted by these people. She longed for their acceptance. Maybe then Lord William would pay her more attention.

Eleanor sighed and left the Drawing Room, turning through the open doors of the Music Room to sit by the harpsichord. She ran her fingers slowly and gently over the keys and began to play, a slow nocturne she deemed suitable accompaniment for this advanced time of the evening.

*

The gently rising notes of the harpsichord filtered softly through the wall connecting the darkened Saloon to the Music Room. Now naked but for his loosened shirt, Lord William raised his head to listen. The Marquess reached down to stroke his hair, free of his wig. The Marquess was sprawled on his back on the chaise longue, Lord William on a cushion on the floor, his head against the Marquess’s solid naked thigh. The door was locked, but the strains of the melancholy music reminded them of the people assembled just two rooms away.

“I wish I could die now,” Lord William sighed.

The Marquess raised his head and smiled wistfully. “No you don’t, William. You have this beautiful house, a fine tailor, your father’s fortune, and excellent taste in claret. What more does a man need?”

“I need you, George.”

“As I do you, William, dearest.”

“I thought, perhaps, after tonight the need would lessen.”

“I knew it would not.”

“This won’t be enough, will it George?” Lord William felt a cold jolt of fear through his bowels. It was a paralysing horror at the idea of moving away from the Marquess now, of leaving this perfect moment, and it was a terror that knew no bounds, of the difficulty of keeping something so profound private, with the most desperate necessity. It felt like trying to fit an Indian elephant into a mouse’s hole, trying to hide something of gigantic proportions in a secret space that could not possibly confine it.

“No William, it will not be enough. But there will be other nights, other moments.”

“And recollections of tonight will sustain me.” Lord William felt the truth of his statement in the deepest recesses of his soul.

“This will always be our time, our place,” the Marquess replied. He sighed. “Do you ever worry about the sins of the fathers and all that, William?”

“What, being visited upon the sons? I have absolutely no intention of fathering any sons, George. Or daughters, for that matter.”

“But I might. And what of the generations who will inhabit your fine rooms after you? They are surely your heirs.”

“Then I hope to bequeath them a legacy of love and the most irresistible desire. I don’t believe you need to be concerned for the souls of your yet-to-be-born offspring, George. This doesn’t feel terribly sinful.”

The Marquess ran his fingers through Lord William’s hair and sighed once more. “I have to agree with you, William.”

The harpsichord music grew softer, pianissimo. It might as well have come from another world, a terrible nightmare world with cruel rules, whispered judgements, and frustrations yet to come. In the dark Saloon, his cheek against the Marquess’s thigh, it was almost impossible to believe such a world could exist.

But it did exist, and now they had to return to it. “Will there be other times, George, for us?”

“There will be other times, William, my love. I believe I might find reasons to travel to Winter alone in the future.”

“I have never valued my inheritance so greatly,” Lord William said with a small smile. The Marquess stooped to kiss him, before they rose to their feet, dressed, and prepared to return to the brightly lit other world. As he did so, Lord William entertained a hopeful, poetic notion that maybe love—sheltered within the walls of Winter though it would have to be—could overcome anything. If it could not, it was at least the most beautiful, profound distraction.